


the girl in red; a poppy

by llgf



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 22:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llgf/pseuds/llgf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to @garglyswoof (on tumblr) for her amazing beta’ing and for being so patient with me!</p>
    </blockquote>





	the girl in red; a poppy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misssophiachase](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misssophiachase/gifts).



> Thanks to @garglyswoof (on tumblr) for her amazing beta’ing and for being so patient with me!

                  “Do you remember the Musée d'Orsay,” she had murmured against his chest the night before.

Of course he remembered. Her eyes widened before a painting, her image more beautiful than the piece of art itself – he hadn’t told her.

It was on Valentine’s Day, a celebration he had forgotten to celebrate a long time ago.

But Caroline is Caroline, and he knew it was important to her.

She likes to wear red on Valentine’s Day, and she wears it so well. A poppy - Monet painted the flowers, and Klaus will paint the woman. She lets the fabric slip on her skin, like a petal - she even smells like a poppy, his Caroline.

When it’s not the dress, it’s her mouth, red as a strawberry that he wants to bite just as much.

Whether it’s a glass of French red wine she’s holding, or blood flowing from her neck during their lovemaking, she shines in red.

He adores red when her skin blushes under his kisses, his caresses; he admires when her neck, her ears turn red in anger – towards him most of the time.

He has never been particularly fond of public displays of affection, preferring the intimacy to explore; investigate what she has to offer, what he has to give.

That’s why they’re alone for Valentine’s Day.

He wakes up before her, which is not often the case. Being careful not to wake her, he goes quietly to prepare breakfast before bringing it to their room. He wakes her up by drawing a line of kisses on her bare back. When he arrives at her neck, he whispers “wake up, love” and the first morning moan is his favorite. It is hard and hoarse, but full of satisfaction. _I will not leave this bed._

He never thought he would appreciate a constant presence, but she had become much more than that.

She’s a muse, put on a pedestal, pushing him aside on her way to the top; he knows it, it’s eating him, because if he’s the most powerful creature, he is dethroned by his blonde vampire. She holds him in her hand like a doll.

He likes it.

He gives her his hand to take the first step to this pedestal.

This next groan announces that she’s opened her eyes. She likes to be with him – he hopes. Who would have thought he would constantly need to ask her if she liked being in his arms, in his bed?

She replies, with a smile and a kiss, always.

And perhaps that’s why he asks.

Any other day, she moans, then she starts kissing his face for _him_ to wake up. Kisses across his eyes and his sharp? cheekbones, contrasted by his growing smile.

* * *

 

                   She moans as he kisses her shoulder on this Valentine’s day. “Morning.”

 _Hm_ , is the only answer.

“I have a croissant.”

She smiles.

He could kill for that smile, and he has.

She turns, the sheet worn out by the night and their lovemaking wrapped around her body, but he manages to see a nipple that’s escaped.

He constantly wants her, desire vibrant in his veins. And she knows it, again, if the smile she gives him is any indication. _Minx_. She gently drops the sheet while biting the croissant au beurre; he wants to bite something else.

She had been a distraction for a long time and he let her do it, if only for her presence. But now she’s a seductive, sometimes shy, sometimes provocative, but constant distraction. He loves it.

She reminds him of those women who knew how to handle men; who were treated like witches, prostitutes, but were a force to be reckoned with. Or those movie stars in black and white, who unintentionally radiated sensuality.

She’s like that. At times, he can feel the change, a more sensual, more devastating mood takes her. Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks turn pink, sometimes she bites her lips. Her gaze is warm and full of promise, could make him take a last breath, bite the dust, fall on his knees to give her pleasure.

He needs to touch, to feel her. She controls him.

He’s dominant in many things, but she’s on this pedestal and he’s looking up.

She has that look as she drops the sheet, the curve of her breasts in daylight, the peak of her breasts facing him.

 _There -_ she bites her lip.

She finishes her food as if nothing happened, as if her nudity wasn’t blatant and _killing him_. She takes a sip of tea – he converted her – before giving him a peck on the mouth. Sweet as a fairy, her lips on his.

Gods, _what a sap_.

She gets up without the sheet, and Klaus is like the only spectator of an eroticism so unconcealed yet so discreet and soft that it makes his head spin. She goes to the bathroom with a rolling invitation on her hips  that he’ll happily take.

He takes her flush against the bathroom mirror, his fingers exploring her most intimate parts, focusing only on her sounds and the redness on her cheeks. He loves her skin and how it changes with her mood, or under his hands.

He offers her a gift, of course; she could drown in all his gifts. She says she hates it, but what is wrong with spoiling her,with giving her all the jewels of the world, all the necklaces, jewelry, artworks, clothes he can offer?

Today, he offers her a set for pottery, because his love for art is infectious, somehow, and although he prefers painting, she has always shown an interest in sculpture.

He had seen her, among the hundreds of sculptures and paintings that offered the Musée d’Orsay, watching at this bronze statue, however small and primary on the corners, Camille Claudel’s desperation could be felt. Perhaps that’s why she had her finger pointing forward, wanting to touch the stone.

“How can something immobile be so inspiring?” She had asked him.

“Precisely because it does not move.”

He remembers the hummingbird’s story, how something so ephemeral had made him question, if only for a moment, his entire existence.

And this young vampire, confronted by the immortality of the stone, had found herself speechless, seeing that yes, she could still see this in hundreds of years. It’s here to stay.

* * *

                  It rains for Valentine’s Day.

A downpour hits the roof, and he knows she likes it. The irregular rhythm resonates as she stays in her warm, protective shelter. Wrapped in a blanket, she looks at the window. He has painted her a thousand times just like that.

He used to be reckless, and many think he has lost his edge - but he has become worse. There is no remorse, no compassion, because now he has something to lose.

Kol often mocks him. “ _Love is a weakness_ ,” then yes, he’s the weakest. Rebekah joins in sometimes too, but gently. She is spiteful, but she still smiles.

He can’t think of a world without her, wrapped in a blanket, watching the wet roofs.

He had been close to losing her, more than once; sometimes because of his own stupidity. But she never left. He often wonders why, and again, she smiles and kisses him – she reassures him without a word.

Caroline is a quiet force, but as destructive as the rain. It snakes into the wall, weakening it and possessing, and with ardor and time it falls.

He fell a long time ago.

She can be as ruthless as the rain, hitting anyone in her path; he tries not to think of her as a rose, but more like a dandelion - sweet, but volatile. With a breath, she flies, she is free; but strong, the French call it “lion’s teeth”, and she can be as ruthless as the creature.

She is beautiful. A breathtaking imperfection; her high forehead, her small lips. Then her personality, controlling, sometimes eccentric, ostentatious, sometimes guilty. She is beautiful.

He prepares her favorite meal every Valentine’s day, even as it changes over the years and with new discoveries; it’s always a pleasure to see her close her eyes and chew slowly.

* * *

 

                  They will not finish the dessert, because there’s chocolate on the corner of her mouth, and he just begs to collect it with his tongue.

She starts pottery as soon as he gives her his gift, and her excitement is a delight. She orders him not to look, as if that was possible. She bites her lip focusing on the clay, sticking her fingertips.

He doesn’t forget to add the pendant – a white gold ‘C’ – she offered him, gliding it on one of his necklaces. He sits and reads next to her, never far away, but still discreet, and he listens, her grunts of complaints; because of course it has to be perfect.

She’s rarely tired, and never gives up, so he is surprised when she sits on his lap and kisses his neck. “Thank you, Klaus,” she whispers gently. Her fingers serpent his curls and she kisses him deeply, her tongue caressing his.

Nietzsche abandoned on the floor, he encircles her waist with his arms and he holds her, he holds her with such a force, because she’s not made of glass, unlike what he likes to believe, and he _always_ wants her closer. Her curves caress his body, its reaction immediate, and her moans are explicit and sensual.

He takes her, and he whispers “I love you,” always like it’s the last time he can say those words, unable to believe in this unreality of her presence.

But she reminds him again with a kiss and a smile that she’s here to stay, that girl who blushes when he talks about her, who reddens when she yells, who wears red for Valentine’s Day, and who makes him absolutely crazy.


End file.
